


These Memories Lose Their Meaning

by jeromesqualor



Category: The Likely Lads, Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads?
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pining, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 16:28:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19890865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeromesqualor/pseuds/jeromesqualor
Summary: "Terry keeps thinking he and Bob should be alone together, and although his mind supplies no further details, it feels so insistent that his blood itches. He wants to be alone with Bob like he wants to fucking breathe. He takes another sup of his lager."Slight canon divergence from Goodbye To All That.





	These Memories Lose Their Meaning

**Author's Note:**

> There needs to be fic for these two, so uh, be the change you wish to see in the world and everything.
> 
> Contains period/canon-typical homophobia. Title from In My Life by The Beatles.

From the moment Bob started talking about joining the army, Terry has felt on edge. He’s jittery, can’t concentrate, can’t sleep. He thinks it’s a ridiculous idea, and has no compunctions about saying as much. But it’s not just that. After all, Bob has stupid ideas all the time, and they don’t make him go around like this. Like he’s under a dark cloud.

It’s Bob’s going away do at the Black Horse. Terry drinks a lot, but it does not seem to have its intended effect. Cloughie and Jack and everyone are crowded around Bob, going on about their old army days, about what it will be like. Terry leans against the bar, knocking back another lager, making occasional snarky remarks. He's surprised to find himself furious with every word. _This is Bob’s last night, and they’re wasting it._ What not wasting it would like, he has only the faintest idea.

Terry keeps thinking he and Bob should be alone together, and although his mind supplies no further details, it feels so insistent that his blood itches. He wants to be alone with Bob like he wants to fucking breathe. He takes another sup of his lager.

When he finally finds himself alone with Bob, saying their goodbyes in Bob's bedroom, it turns out he didn’t have much else in the way of ideas. He gives him the transistor radio – the batteries are gone, but it’s the thought that counts – and Bob walks him to the door. But Terry still feels like his insides are on fire. Like there’s something he needs to do. _Needs_ to.

He gives him a spiel about having a good time. Then: “I wish you were coming with us,” Bob says.

Terry feels his mouth running on autopilot, making some joke. But his heart is in his throat. He wants to say _I wish I was coming too_ , but it’s not like he wants to join the army. He wants to say _the thought of not seeing you every day is painful_. He wants to say _I never want us to be apart_.

Terry realises, suddenly terrified, that what he wants to do is kiss him. He wants to press his lips softly against Bob’s, real delicate. He wants to pepper kisses all over his cheeks, down his neck. He wants to pull him in by his lapels and kiss him desperately, wet and sloppy and open. He wants to suck a love bite on his neck, mark him _Property of Terry Collier_. Yeah, that’s about right. He thinks Bob might be the only thing that was ever really his.

He puts out his hand for Bob to shake.

But Bob pulls him in for a hug, instead, and Terry is _thisclose_ to pushing him away, thinking Bob will surely _know_ , sense it somehow. That he’s a fucking shirt lifter, apparently.

(He’s _not_ though. He likes birds. A lot. He’s never been interested in blokes. It's just that... Bob isn’t some bloke.)

But Bob is putting his arms around him, and Terry’s resolve collapses. So does his body, more or less. Bob’s arms are around him, basically holding him upright. Terry buries his face in his shoulder, balls his fist in the back of his jacket. They haven’t hugged like this in a long time. Since they were kids, most likely.

“You’re heavy for a wiry git, aren’t you?” Bob says. He’s close enough that Terry can feel his breath. The burning feeling of needing to be alone with him starts to subside – sated by this unusual proximity. Then Terry turns his head ever so slightly, and presses his lips to Bob’s neck.

It felt so natural that he doesn’t realise what he’s done until Bob turns rigid against him. He swears and pulls away, but Bob stops him, holds him in place. Terry’s stomach is churning.

“Terry,” Bob says. Terry thinks it must be a warning, but it sounds so warm and soft and _fond_. Then Bob’s nose is nuzzling into his hair. Terry’s fist tightens in Bob’s jacket, pulling him in ever so tighter.

“I’ll miss you,” Terry says, a whisper buried in Bob’s shoulder, barely audible even to himself, “I’m going to miss you so much.”

He can feel the line of Bob’s cock through his suit trousers, can suddenly name the hot curl of want in his stomach. To push Bob up against the wall. Kiss and _bite_ and lick. Pull open his tie and his shirt buttons and run his hands over every inch of skin. To open his belt and slide his palm against Bob’s bare arse beneath the fabric. To feel Bob’s hands all over, calloused fingers so unlike a girl’s. _All_ over, he thinks, and Terry's sure that Bob can feel his erection pressing against his thigh.

The two of them stand there, holding one another, for a good long while. Then Terry pulls away. “I best be off,” he says, all bluster, “Best of luck, mate.” He claps Bob on the shoulder and walks straight out the door.

Terry reckons they’ll never talk about it. Reckons he can blame it on the booze if they ever do, even though he’d never felt as sober in his life.

And they don’t talk about it, but mostly because they don’t talk at all much after that. Terry signs up for the army so they won't be apart, and apart is exactly how they end up.

But for five whole years, Terry never forgets Bob _holding_ him like that. All right, he thinks about it when he wanks, mostly: Bob’s warm breath, his surprisingly strong arms, their cocks just begging to be rubbed together. Or Terry’s cock was begging, any road. He strokes himself and imagines Bob’s hand instead, imagines Bob lying underneath him, imagines how Bob must taste (cider and cigarettes, mostly). Terry thinks about getting off with a lad, just to get it out of his system, but he never manages to go through with it. _It’s not real_ , he assures himself. _Just a weird fantasy about somebody I don’t know anymore_.

Then he's on the train home, home for good, and there's Bob right across from him. He’s put on weight and grown out his hair. It’s strange, but Terry had never thought about what Bob might look like now.

And everything suddenly feels so real that he can’t stand it.


End file.
